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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23397214">You Can Feel It</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/max_well/pseuds/max_well'>max_well</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Buzzfeed, M/M, Non-explicit character death, Ryan is Grieving, Therapy, buzzfeed unsolved - Freeform, ryan is also Suffering, sorry ryan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:41:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,571</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23397214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/max_well/pseuds/max_well</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ryan, our time is up.“ Mr. Clarke is getting impatient, he usually gives you a few minutes, leaves the door open and his couch a welcome companion to your tears you couldn’t show him anyway. But today is different, he has a wife to run home to, maybe a dog he wants to be with. Anywhere but here, with you. Still grieving, Ryan.</p><p>But how can you be grieving when he’s right there?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Can Feel It</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’m back on my bullshit! Enjoy this piece I wrote during quarantine, stay safe!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They say that grief is a very personal process.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are plenty of side effects. They say sometimes you’ll see the person you lost, out of the corner of your eyes. Maybe in another person. Sometimes, you may hear their voice, the soft echo of their vocal chords seemingly scattered across your apartment, when in reality it’s just an auditory hallucination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That you’re just grieving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe you should be over it by now, shouldn’t you, Ryan?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, you shudder lightly, because it has not been a long time. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, only that it has been way too much. Only that it’s been way too long since you’ve heard his voice, the charming low rumble of his laugh, the feeling you felt in your stomach when he was with you. When he was with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What you’re feeling is normal, Ryan. Your therapist tells you. He’s a kind enough man, round as a walnut and his hairline receding. He has a PHD, so he knows what he’s talking about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And know what you’re feeling is valid. It happens to everyone. His eyes bore into you from behind his slim glasses, like he’s trying to understand what’s wrong with you just by looking at you (which wouldn’t be hard, anyway. If the loss of life in your cheeks or the bags under your eyes have to say anything).</span>
</p><p>You know it’ll only cause an argument, but you shake your head. Because this doesn’t happen to everyone. An apartment so empty that somehow still feels full. The temperature drop in your room every night, while you’re laying in bed feeling nothing. Always nothing. Because nothing is all you can deal with. It’s all that keeps your eyes from darting to the corner of the room, looking for him, looking for those hazel eyes that you can feel boring into the back of your head when you’re resting.</p><p>
  <span>Everyone feels like this Ryan. He tells you curtly, he gathers papers in his hands. Probably a note that’s going to prescribe you some antipsychotics so you can actually get a fair night's rest, so maybe when you’re watching television in your living room that you won’t feel the cold dead presence of something once there, so you won’t feel that he’s holding you. He’s right there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you’re just grieving, Ryan. He passes you the papers. Bingo, new depression med, new antipsychotic. God, you’re not crazy, but these </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> make you crazy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You want to shake your head again, start another fight, anything’s better than feeling this ever crushing weight on your shoulder. He’s comforting you, you can feel it. With only his hand he’s trying to remove that glaze from your eyes, he’s trying to be there for you, Ryan. You can feel him, he’s right there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If you take that to your pharmacist, they’ll know what to give you. We can see how you’re riding these next few weeks, see if there’s any improvement. If not, we’ll just have to up the dose. He stands, pulling up his neat tweed trousers under his suit jacket, your meeting is over. Another hand adjusts his glasses, moving them farther up on his tiny nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You drop your head, lolling to the side. His arm is there, and it blocks you from falling completely, still a staple for you, still holding you. He’s right there Ryan. You can see the curl of his fingers under your chin, you always can. The great expense of his knuckles curving harshly into themselves, the harsh angles of his hands something you always treasured. The solid curve of his arm is with you, you can feel the softness of his arm hair pushing into your temple. He’s right there, Ryan. </span>
</p><p>You turn, head snapping into a harsh seventy five degree angle, vertebrae popping as you force such a fast turn. </p><p>
  <span>He’s not there. The warmth from him is still there, the feeling of a warm body against your cheek, on your shoulder, the soft gaze of his hazel eyes still watching you as you try not to fall apart on your therapist. Still ever watching, though the image of his eyes closed shut still haunts you. The waxy gleam placed to instill a mockery of life only making him look like some sort of puppet. Like a doll still burned into the back of your head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a rough time, Ryan. But you can get through it. He’s packed up. He wants you to leave his office, but you're still looking for brown hair and pink lips and something tangible that didn’t go your way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all could’ve been so easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you were with him he only made you a better person, only made you want to be a better person. Made you want to feel that angular, so cold but present hand in yours. Made you want to smell that smell of too much deodorant after a run, the smell of him that he couldn’t ever shake from his clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made you want to touch him. He made you want to hold him, and most times you did.</span>
</p><p>Cause that’s all you were ever going to get, wasn’t it? </p><p>Ryan, our time is up. Mr. Clarke is getting impatient, he usually gives you a few minutes, leaves the door open and his couch a welcome companion to your tears you couldn’t show him anyway. But today is different, he has a wife to run home to, maybe a dog he wants to be with. Anywhere but here, with you. Still grieving, Ryan.</p><p>But how can you be grieving when he’s right there?</p><p>
  <span>Your head dropped again, the small shake of your shoulders significant, shaking away the hand that was once there. You can feel the deep canyons the tears cut into your cheeks, not making them bleed but doing much worse than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You close your eyes. Sorry Mr. Clarke, your puppy will just have to wait one more minute. He’s right there again, crouched down in front of you. You can feel it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you hear lightly. It’s something soft, quiet, and it’s him. He speaks quietly only so you know it’s for you. A hand now cold finds a way onto your cheek, smoothing the deep canyon and pressing away the tear that cut it there. You want to reach for him but you know he’ll be gone. You want to feel the short, light hair under your fingers again, his wrist and the solid presence of a bone under it, but you don’t. You don’t. Because he’s here with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not to spoil the ending, but it’s all going to be okay, ya idiot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He chuckles lightly, not to make light of the situation but so you can hear it. You crumple, shoulders heaving and tears leaving your eyes at rapid speed, and he stands. His arms wrap around you easily, over your shoulders. You want to wrap your hands around, grasp tightly onto that thick vest and hold, hold.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He says it into your neck, the air getting trapped between the junction of your shoulder and your neck. The air is warm, and he was warm everywhere. He was right here, you could feel it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You open your eyes. He should’ve been right here, but all that’s left of him is a whisper and the feeling of warmth now leaving. You stand, and it should’ve been close enough to knock him over, but he’s not there. You can still feel his eyes on you, but he’s moved again. Maybe to another plane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sorry. You say it quietly as you wipe your eyes. The canyons rub deep when you scrub at them, now permanent and going to make it obvious to the world around you that you were upset. Only ever upset, aren’t you Ryan?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s okay. Mr. Clarke says easily, but he looks at his watch again, making it obvious that it’s time to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll take the prescription to my doctor. You crumple it into your pocket, probably more likely to be washed than ever delivered to your doctor, but walnut over here won’t know that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good. I’ll see you same time next week. He smiles, a courtesy, and steps out of the way so you can leave. You swear you can hear footsteps following you out, ones that aren’t the heavy </span>
  <em>
    <span>clunk </span>
  </em>
  <span>of your therapist behind you, but the press of a boot into the carpet. </span>
</p><p>You want to turn around, see him, take him in for everything that he is and now isn’t. You want to see that smile, or the solemn expression of concern he carried every time you were upset.</p><p>But you don’t. Instead, you listen to the click of the lock as Mr. Clark closes the office, keys jangling in his hand as he did, and you press your feet, one after another into the shag carpeting beneath them. And you breathe in deeply the air of the city once you get outside. And you start your car and go home to an empty apartment, and you ignore the eyes on the back of your head while you get ready for bed, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all these trivial tasks you do to keep the sound of something, anything, bustling in your apartment.</p><p>Because you’re just grieving.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And what you’re feeling is normal, Ryan.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
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